


A Maroon in Midnight Blue

by khalifaziz



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Crime Story, DCU, The Joker - Fandom
Genre: By PoC about PoC, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Mystery, Original Character - Freeform, Racism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-01
Updated: 2020-04-15
Packaged: 2020-10-05 03:43:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 21,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20482298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/khalifaziz/pseuds/khalifaziz
Summary: Terror in Gotham City! Almost as soon as the Joker was secured in Arkham Asylum, a new painted clown appears to spread misery and fear throughout the city! Calling himself Minstrel, the young man targets any individual in Gotham guilty of hate crimes against its Black community. Though the villain is himself Black, he defies all logic by using blackface makeup and red lipstick as a disguise!Of course we can trust our Dark Crusader to win in the end, but at what cost? His very character will be shaken to the core in this tale as he struggles to rectify his sense of morality with his sense of social justice and responsibility! Will Batman suffer the Minstrel the same fate as the Joker, or will he take a blind eye  to a young man doing the right thing in questionable ways? Find out here: Same Bat time, same Bat channel.





	1. Author's Note: An Explanation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TL;DR - I am Black. The villain wears blackface to call out stereotypes, shame the people that support them, but also to challenge the idea that our natural features should be seen as bad in the first place.

Disclaimer: DC, please don't sue me! I'm just a nerd with a keyboard.

Whenever I tell people that I'm writing a story with a main character who's a Black kid in blackface, the reaction is understandably confused, and a little angry. 

Please don't misunderstand, I do not condone blackface. Not even when Zoe Saldana did it.

This story is not a celebration of blackface nor is it a justification. Everything this story comes from me asking myself, "What if the Joker was Black?"

When the news about the Three Jokers first broke, I was ecstatic. Not only was it a great way to resolve the character's changes, but it also reintroduced the idea that the Joker could be anyone! "The Joker's not gay!" exclaimed enraged hetero parents at Lego Batman. Now I can say, "Oh yeah, which Joker isn't gay? There's three of them you know." And if anyone ever talks about casting a non-white man as the Joker and it gets backlash, we can go "There are three different Jokers, of course at least one of them isn't white!"

When I realized that latter point, I started thinking about what a Black Joker would be like. I realized almost immediately that I didn't like the idea. The Joker's entire philosophy is something that I don't think really speaks to the experience of the majority of Black people. The Joker's cosmic level nihilism is predicated on absolutely nothing, as evidenced by his fabrication of different origin stories meant to justify his rage. While The Killing Joke brings us as close as ever to an official origin for him, that is the origin of one interpretation of the Joker.

I started thinking of the Joker's essential themes and essence. I asked my self "at the end of the day, what is the Joker?" The Joker is a Trickster much like Buggs Bunny, who challenges our social customs and expectations. But the Joker uses these challenges to distort all aspects of reality which we take for granted into something monstrous. He believes that in chaos, a story may continue. His chaos is necessary for Batman to exist, and as long as there is a Batman there will be ten thousand Jokers, or at least one. Ultimately, the Joker sees reality and our commitment to it as evidence of the greatest cosmic joke ever. The logic of the joke is something known only to him, and he doesn't bother explaining it to people because he knows they'd never understand. To the Joker, we're all just trying to walk across bridges made from flashlight beams.

The reason I don't think the Joker's character works for the average Black man is due to how unfocused his critiques are. The Joker finds the world and society hilarious, but rarely states any specific aspect he finds more reprehensible than others. I think this is because the Joker's character has always been treated as race-neutral, ie white, by the writers. He doesn't have a generational trauma to look back on. He doesn't have anything by which people routinely discriminate against him. He's shown being poor in some of his origin stories, but even then he doesn't specify whether he blames that on the rich, the government, or the economic system as a whole. He isn't even recognized as crazy unless he absolutely wants to be. The political neutrality works for the Joker, but I don't really believe it can work with anyone of a demographic who's very existence is politicized. Or, at least, it can't work in any capacity that I would still consider representation. 

Minstrel is the exact opposite of the Joker. He hates society, but he has the context necessary to identify which aspect of society bothers him the most: racism and white supremacy. Minstrel's nihilism isn't based on ersatz traumas concocted for jokes, but is instead based on real, identifiable generational and personal traumas that shape his identity. The Minstrel is the Minstrel because of the Rape of Africa, Slavery, Jim Crow, the Black Wallstreet Massacre, the Fred Hampton Murder, starvation in Haiti, mass incarceration, the AIDS epidemic, the manufactured crack epidemic, COINTELPRO, the Libyan Slave Trade, and every atrocity to befall Black people because we are Black. His nihilism is based on the surreal feeling when rage meets dejection as one realizes that there is little they can do as an individual to prevent a slow genocide against their people, and the fury that inspires them to do whatever they can. 

Minstrel is the living embodiment of the old tale of the enslaved man who dies, discovers that God and St. Peter do not admit Negroes, and decides to sneak in to heaven and have as much destructive fun as he can. Minstrel is the Flying Fool who woke up and said "fuck it" then continued on his mad, mad day.

Blackface is often treated as a tool of humiliation and shame, but I and Minstrel see it differently. With Blackface, the white society was attempting to take what they fear about Black people and make it something they could mock. The 'simple mindedness' was a stand-in for our supposed animalistic, violent natures. The physical features of the minstrel and his friends (Sambo, Nat, Sapphire, Jemima, Rastuss, etc) evoked every physical feature we actually had, which they feared. Our dark skin scared them, so they made it darker. Our big lips scared them, so they made them bigger and gave them sinister smiles. They feared that we didn't have souls, so they gave us large, expressionless eyes. They feared our sheer numbers and their inability to recognize us, so they gave us nondescript faces that blended together. Through the minstrel show, white society allowed itself the opportunity to "reclaim" power over their basic fears. 

Why does Minstrel wear Blackface? Because he wants to draw on that fear and weaponize it for Black people. The Joker terrifies people to laugh at what a joke the world is. Minstrel believes that hate crimes can only be deterred through fear. 

Yet at the same time, it's ridiculous that such features are seen as fearful in the first place. Hell yeah, I'm black! My hair is curly, my nose is broad, and niggas can't see me at night! On some days, I think it's beautiful. On some days, I think it's just a fact of my appearance, and that placing such notions of aesthetics, whether positive or negative, is more unhealthy than anything. It still reinforces the idea that something has to be beautiful in the first place. On other days, I think it makes me sexy. It's nonsensical, but I understand it. This is the Minstrel's ultimate joke: the paradoxical notion that to be Black is beautiful while simultaneously understanding that we shouldn't have to be beautiful in the first place. And also feeling sexy sometimes. It makes him laugh. And in those manic moments in which I'm reminded that I should probably see a therapist, it makes me laugh too. It makes me laugh like I'm a nameless man that just read a letter he wasn't meant to open. 

That's all I'm trying to do with this series. I think that all too often Black media chooses to respond to our struggle as something that's either so emotional that many people stop consuming it because they can't handle the intensity, or it removes all context and gives meaningless comedy that doesn't address the issues at all. I don't want to make people feel so bad that they're emotionally shattered, but I also don't want to make people laugh at jokes that don't mean anything. I want people to be somewhere in the middle. 

Also, I just really love the Batman/Joker dynamic. 

Thanks for reading this long essay. Unfortunately that's all I can think to say on the issue right now. I know this story may not be received as I want it to, but I just wanted to explain my reasoning first. If it sounds like something you're still interested in, go ahead and look at the next chapter. Trigger warnings for murder, violence, and racial violence all throughout. There's also a few allusions to sexual abuse, but never graphic scenes (such descriptions of sexual trauma goes against my personal philosophy).


	2. A Message From Minstrel

The television screen which had previously displayed Kanye West waltzing with an award-winning dancer suddenly stopped. The two figures were frozen in place, their faces contorted into hideous horrors while the sound of a thousand mosquitoes wings threatened to destroy the speakers entirely. The screen went black, then the inky-color changed.

The room on the screen was made to look exactly like ABC Gotham, WWGC. The background was the familiar blue-tinted image of the Gotham skyline which millions of her citizens had come to recognize and love. The big desk with the glass top and white plastic front had the WWGC insignia – a pigeon carrying a newspaper and pen like the famous dove carrying an olive branch – reproduced perfectly. 

Seated at the desk was a single man. He wore a straw hat, suspenders, and a red and white striped button-down. Lofted in his arms was a banjo that gleamed in the studio lights. The figure struck the banjo in a slow, steady stream of plings and plucks, while his large eyes stared up at some unknown spectacle. His face, painted pitch-black like the Gotham night, was stretched in awe while his large, red lips were agape.

Suddenly, the spectacle turned to the camera and smiled.

"Oh, hello there. And good evening," the figure elucidated in a refined, high speech. Placing the banjo aside, he took off his hat and did a large, seated bow with a slight flourish of his gloved, white hands.

"It brings me the utmost pleasure to make your acquaintance," the figure continued. He then reclaimed his banjo and began playing a tune. Millions of Gothamites would say they recognized it, but would find themselves unable to place the exact origins. So slow and somber did he play that no one would realize the song was the beloved child-hood song, Camptown Races, until hours after the broadcast.

"You already know my name. I daresay that you know everything about me. Our relationship has been so intimate from a young age. My own mother allowed us both to suckle from her ample bosom. Of course, your helping was always much more sizeable than my own. I don't blame you for that of course. How could I? Aren't I your dear friend, just as you've always said?"

The mysterious figure covered his mouth as his entire body contorted hither and tither. A low, guttural voice chopped through the air. As the shaking grew faster and the voice grew louder, it took a more familiar form. The strange monster of a man wasn't growling or coughing or anything else. He was laughing; a cacophonous chortle which was more comparable to the sound of gravel and slide whistles in a blender than any sound a human could make, but laughter all the same.

"I entertained you," He screamed as he suddenly pointed at the camera. 

"I told you the most wonderful stories and played you the most amazing songs. I told you how I escaped tigers and briar patches! I played games with you! Remember how we tossed the rocks and baseballs? Remember how we went gator-watching? We sang the most incredible songs! And you gave me the most delicious food. Food which I am to this day obsessed with. We were FRIENDS!"

The figure stopped laughing. So quickly did his wide, smiling face suddenly become still and reserved that it shocked viewers more than anything which had happened that night. His wide eyes still stared into the camera, but his face was plain and unreadable.

"So why would you betray me?"

The figure raised a hand to his eye, as though wiping away a tear. Yet his face stayed perfectly still and unchanged the entire time. The camera began to zoom in on the stranger's face. Soon, his dark complexion filled the entire screen and he became a floating pair of eyes and red lips.

"I'm upset, obviously. You've all been very bad girls, boys, and gender variant children. I don't think we ever were truly friends. I think you were always afraid of me, so we could never really be friends in your eyes. And for so long, I was kept suppressed and tried to make you my friend. But with each blow, I grew stronger."

The madman's face was replaced with different pictures. A black and white of a corpse who's face bulged so horribly and grotesquely that it hardly appeared human. A modern picture of a woman lying on the floor of a jail door. A young girl in a prison suit, crying in a courtroom. A burning building. People in a small village eating cakes of mud. People in a major city standing in line for cases of water. Men in black leather jackets connecting a thousand strings to the walls of a house. The horrific history contained in the images he showed, without warning, would prompt many tears that night, while also incur the jealousy of many historians throughout the country.

His face returned back to the screen. Now, he was smiling. It was the type of wide-eyed grin that would make a man look over his shoulder. The man's eyes beamed in the light but didn't appear to focus on anything. When the light reflected off his round, beautiful lips, it flashed a color of rich, red rum.

"I'm free now, you see. I escaped their souls and created my own physical form. In this flesh lies the fears of both you, my frenemies, and them, my family. But for my family, I'm more than fear. I am rage. I am hope. I am sex, money, murder, honor, DNA!"

He suddenly stopped. His hand hung in the air while he stared at the back of his hand quizzically.

"I'm so sorry, that's Kendrick's thing. I got lost in the moment. Anyway, Call me Minstrel."


	3. To Good Men

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce Wayne, a bored socialite hosting a party full of people he despises celebrating a political issue dear to him...

I remember early in my career one night, Gordon looked at me quizzically and asked a question I keep hearing, often from myself.

I was in the pouring rain, a would-be rapist in one hand while my other was knotted into a fist dripping with his blood. Gordon surprised me, something I didn't let happen ever again. He stumbled upon me caught in a rage as I pummeled the man's face in. We weren't yet friends, but we'd worked together before, so he didn't even pull his gun. He only reached for it.

"You're one of the good guys, right?" He asked.

I responded by dropping the wretch into a puddle of rain and rat feces, then taking out my grappling hook and leaving. That was the last time Gordon ever watched me exit anywhere.

A year or two later, I had my first real conversation with Clark. Just like before, I'd worked with him previously, but this was still in our relationship. We didn't really know each other, and he still thought I didn't know he was Superman. We weren't friends back then.

I was staking out a Gotham drug king-pin that was carrying out a deal in Metropolis when the red and blue boy-scout appeared. He flew up to the rooftop I was stationed on with a quizzical look on his face. I can't blame him, if I caught him surveilling a building in Gotham back in those days, I'd be curious, and maybe more than a little territorial as well. I pretended to ignore him, but he's Superman.

"You're one of the good guys, right?" He asked.

I replied by shooting a canister of tear gas into the building across the street, then grappling over and slamming my body through the window. Metro PD got fifteen collars that night.

I do that whenever people ask that question: I stay silent and I act on it. People need to realize that good isn't just a category we can box people into, it's about action. My Catholic father would have some qualms with that but ultimately agree, and the same goes for my Jewish mother. They both instilled in me an inherent desire to be thought of as good while also teaching me that the best way towards that was to actually do good things for good reasons. For the right reasons. Heaven and Hell were far off and probably not real, what mattered was doing the right thing every time I had the chance. I respond to those questions with action because that is the only appropriate response.

That's what I tell myself at least.

The truth is, I don't know if my actions are good. Selina likes to quote Bojack Horseman when I make such comments and tells me that I'm fetishizing my own sadness. Maybe she's right. I know for a fact that Clark and Diana question their actions as well, but that's different. Neither of them are Batman. Batman is not a symbol of hope and all things good in the world.

Take an ornate Catholic Church interior: Diana is the angel, the kind messenger sent here to guide and protect. Clark, no matter how much he wishes he weren't, is Jesus as of late. I'm not in the interior. I'm the gargoyle on the outside. I am ugly and cruel and scary in order to protect the worshipers inside from everything uglier and crueler and scarier on the outside that would try to get in. I like being the gargoyle because someone has to be. But just because I'm not a symbol of hope does not mean that I don't have a role to play in inspiring hope.

I'm Batman. I'm supposed to keep people safe from the monsters that would prey on them by taking on the qualities of those monsters. But I can never—must never become the monster itself. Sometimes I wonder when it is that I go too far. Whether it's smaller actions like my brutality or larger ones like Brother Eye, I make mistakes that make me less of a gargoyle and more of an actual demon. Every time I try to do something so good that I might shake these wings and scales off my back for a second, something brings me back. So I try and save my good deeds for when I become Bruce Wayne again, but the same problem arises.

Barry once asked me how I managed to build the Batcave without anyone noticing. I told him I used undocumented migrant laborers who were paid handsomely and given papers. He laughed, because there was no way that I'd do that. Diana once remarked that my bankrolling the Justice League had to have made my investors suspicious. I told her that I cook my books and she rolled her eyes. On paper, Bruce Wayne is a corrupt capitalist. I've hacked my own FBI file before, there are theories that I'm connected to everyone from El Chapo to Lex Luthor.

It even affects my private life and family, too. Clark asked how I managed to hide the boys' bruises and cuts from Gotham Academy school officials, and I told him that whenever a school counsellor comes knocking, I build another dormitory or create another scholarship. It bothers me to know that to maintain this lie, I've had to paint myself as the very thing my parents always told me to never become. Yet I keep doing it. I funnel money into off-shore accounts. I find families on the border abandoned by coyotes and promise them a house in a suburb in Michigan if they build yet another safe-house for me. I've paid bribes. To save a boat of sex slaves, I had to implicate myself in their capture and transport. Bruce Wayne has to get his hands dirty just as much as Batman, and that's what the others don't realize. In order for both Bruce Wayne, the hope of Gotham, and Batman, it's ever-present gargoyle to coexist, we have to do things that neither of us want to do.

The night of February First, I did one of those things.

Don't get me wrong, I supported the Gotham NAACP receiving a five million dollar donation. But I knew Joseph Grant – the man donating it – too well to be happy about it. Most of the room knew that he was a public supporter the Trump/Pence campaign, and had himself tweeted many disparaging remarks about the Black Lives Matter movement and Standing Rock protests. Those well-versed in legal history that gets swept under the rug by buying out newspapers also know that, like Trump's father, he was caught in a housing discrimination scandal a few years back.

Grant's family was also a founding family of the Gotham City Ku Klux Klan, and he himself was an honorary member. This was a fact known only to those of us in the room that made up the elite of the Gotham elite, and perhaps a few of the older members of Gotham's NAACP. The man was a racist, that was a verifiable fact. Yet there he was in my house, having a party celebrating a thinly veiled pre-emptive cover-up to the questions that would be asked during his nephew's campaign for governor. It made me sick, but I did it anyway, because this was the type of event that Bruce Wayne had to throw. It kept up appearances.

Lucius walked over to me, giving a small, socially acceptable hug which ended in a professionally friendly handshake, "I'm glad to see you're enjoying yourself, Mr. Wayne."

"I'm happier to see that you're enjoying yourself, Lucius. The happier I manage to keep the head of Gotham's NAACP, the more I ensure Grant doesn't rob me of my title as Gotham's most charitable man."

Lucius laughed, "Oh, Mr. Wayne you kidder."

"In all truth, Lucius, I think this is a phenomenal project. In fact, I'd like to toss my own hat in. Next year, I was thinking of—"

"Okay, Bruce you can stop, the reporter's not looking our way anymore."

I relaxed a little and unclenched my body, "I meant everything I said, you know."

Lucius shook his head, "It was all true, but you didn't mean it. I know you're enjoying this about as much as I'd enjoy having Bane as my chiropractor."

I smirked, "I'm not saying that was more enjoyable, but I was having back troubles when that happened, you know. So for a quick moment..."

Lucius shook his head again, "And people say you don't joke enough."

I took a glass of champagne from a passing waiter. Bringing it to my mouth, I muttered, "That's the other guy."

Lucius smiled.

Taking another sip, I asked him the question that had been in my mind for a while, "Aren't you worried?"

"About this biting me in the back?" Lucius said with his hand on his chin, "No, I don't think so. There's a certain level of caution that went into finally making the decision to accept Mr. Grant's proposal, but ultimately, I don't think it'll hurt us too bad. If organizations like mine denied every check that came to us just because the person signing it had a less than reputable character, that would ruin us faster than any backlash would. You're old enough to understand that now, son."

I nodded along, largely unsurprised by his answer. There were obviously stark differences, but in that moment, I realized that what Lucius was doing wasn't too different from what I had to do to maintain the lie of my night activities. I wished he hadn't, most of all because his method meant that he still had to call someone as awful as Grant, "mister."

I looked around the room, annoyed with some of the names I recognized in attendance. "Still, the company he keeps...isn't this hard for you?"

Lucius just smiled and shook his head, "You should really read some Ellison sometime, Bruce."

I made a mental note to have Alfred purchase Invisible Man on tape for me.

At the pompous sound of a silver spoon hitting my third best crystal set, Lucius excused himself from my side to join Grant onstage, while I took my own seat at a table in the front row. Damian was already there, his head held aloft and a petulant scowl on his face. Tim and Duke were doing their best to appear interested, but I saw the tell-tale sign of a thumb war being fought under the table. I wanted to sigh but didn't, at least one of us had to appear acceptably invested by social standard.

"Ladies and gentleman," Grant said into the microphone with a haughty air. "I am pleased to be here with you all tonight, celebrating both diversity and persistence through adversity in our glorious city. I'm especially pleased that none of my own money is being spent in throwing this party."

A laugh went around the room.

"Father," I heard Damian whispering. "At your instruction I shall purchase majority share of his own company through one of our shell organizations."

"No hostile takeovers before dessert, Damian," I dismissively retorted with a wide, fake smile on my face.

Grant continued his speech, "In all honesty though, thank you, Bruce for your contribution to this endeavor. This is a fantastic party, and I can't wait to see the party you throw when you inevitably reassert yourself as the most Charitable Man in Gotham."

Another round of laughs around the room. I made a mental note to revisit the Disney World/WayneCorp Party for a Greener Earth proposal. Perhaps I'd scrap the whole idea. It seemed too predictable.

"When I first decided to donate five million dollars to the Gotham NAACP, I was actually at a small party gathering. Some of you may remember the Republicans of Gotham benefit dinner three weeks ago. I had the idea at that party during a conversation with a friend of mine. Well, when I told my friend I planned to donate one million dollars to the NAACP, he asked me why. Handouts and the like aren't typically the style of our party, he said. I told him that this was true. I don't want to get into politics here, but it is indeed a fact that our party tends to advocate for independent movement upward through our nations meritocratic system. But for so long, not everyone had access to the resources necessary to move upward. And that's all that the NAACP does."

Grant put an arm around Lucius in an awkward type of politician hug.

"I told my friend as I'm telling you right now that I will proudly support the NAACP. For it is an organization that is helping the remaining disenfranchised people of color in our great Gotham community work towards the future and all the benefits that we've all been blessed with. By giving to the NAACP, we invest in Gotham's future, not provide a handout."

There was dignified, respectable applause throughout the room. Lucius looked please but I'd known the man long enough to be able to tell when he was swallowing his tongue.

My phone went off in my pocket. One pulse and two small beeps. Emergency news alert. I decided that I'd check it in a second. When I heard Damian's phone go off, I cursed him in my head for disobeying a direct order and decided that I'd hide it again to teach him a lesson. He'd probably try to kill me for it, but that wasn't a big concern. When I heard Tim's phone go off, I knew it was time to have Alfred teach them proper social etiquette again.

When Duke pulled out his phone and stared at it for seconds, I knew there was something wrong.

"Mr. Wayne," he said as he sneakily passed his phone to me.

I didn't look down. I didn't have to. All around us, the ball room had transformed into an amphitheater of chirps, and buzzes. Gotham's social elite were retrieving phones, fiddling with watches, and staring into blank space as they read augmented reality displays invisible to the rest of us. I reasoned there were at least fifty different news apps that were all reporting at the exact same moment. There's a very limited number of things that would cause that great a response in Gotham, the city where a zombie on a rampage is delegated to the third page news.

Ever mysteriously dutiful, Alfred appeared right in the nick of time to spill a hot plate all over my lap.

"Goodness sir!" He exclaimed while he hurriedly covered my now singed privates with a cloth.

Poor Helena, I thought, Damian would get his wish of being my only biological child after all.

"I'm so sorry sir," Alfred continued as he began to lead me out of the room, "I was so dismayed when I saw the news on young Master Thomas's phone that I lost my composure. It will never happen again. There's another set of formal wear laid out for you in your private quarters."

"Thank you for your foresight, Alfred," I said. Once we were in the hall, away from prying ears, I asked, "What do we do if Bruce Wayne doesn't come back from his bedroom in a timely manner?"

My ever faithful companion smiled, "Well Miss Vale, I'm unable to disclose the comings and goings of my employer. But I assure you that the charge that he would leave a charitable event to...'play host to' a pair of models is absurd! I long respected your news station, but I am appalled to find they are investigating such lewd rumors which are obviously false."

The closest entrance to the Batcave was one of the oldest. Once again disobeying my psychiatrist, I positioned the hands to show the exact time of my parent's death, revealing a fireman's pole hidden in an alcove in the wall.

I landed in the Batcave with a soft, barely audible 'thud.' I made a mental note to apologize to Alfred for tossing all my clothes on the floor, but I was in a hurry. Luckily, it was easier to get into the Batsuit than it was to get out of my tuxedo.

I hopped into the Batmobile and turned the key. Hearing the engine roar to life, I began to speed through the Batcave towards the exit. As I passed the Batcopter and Batwing, I heard Damian's voice in my ear, through the Batcoms.

"Father," he said as though he were ordering me to respond. It was a great improvement from his usual method of interacting with authority figures. At least he wasn't talking like I was the child.

"Yes, son? Is there a problem?" I asked.

"What ever happened to Batcow? Robin-slash-Lark-slash-Signal doesn't believe me about it."

"I'm hanging up now," I stated through gritted teeth.

In any other situation I might have excused a little lightheartedness and humored his request. But not tonight. I already knew that I wasn't going to be in the mood for jokes.

"This is Tom Thompson," the voice on the radio stated. "And I'm coming at you live from the site of yet another Joker attack."


	4. Square One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Batman appears on the scene of the latest Joker-related attack: the Gamma Epsilon Omega House of Gotham University...

"This is Tom Thompson," the voice on the radio stated. "And I'm coming at you live from the site of yet another Joker attack. Shockingly, the attack happened during a blackface party at the Gamma Epsilon Omega fraternity house of our very own, world renowned Gotham University. Current reports indicate that, around nine-thirty tonight, the party goers heard explosions as Joker Venom canisters went off. We have an audio recording from one of the party goers's social media pages."

The warped, drawn out sounds of "Straight Outta Compton" filled the Batmobile. It was quickly overshadowed by a voice: young, masculine, and clearly intoxicated. I'd guess he was twenty-one at the most. He said something unintelligible into the microphone for a moment, then screamed.

"What the hell is that?! What's that green *bleep*!"

A loud "bang" rang out, followed by a hissing as the youth continued screaming. The screams slowly changed, however. They became deeper, broken up gasps of air. Anyone from out of town would think he were coughing, but this was Gotham. We knew the first snickers of Joker Venom poisoning all too well.

Tom Thompson's voice replaced the horror of the recording, "GCPD was on the scene within minutes, but it was too late. By that time all the party goers, over a hundred students and visitors were all paralyzed with black paint sprayed onto their faces."

"Sounds like they got what they deserved if you ask me," Barb's voice rang out in the comms.

"You may have a point there, Oracle," I muttered while swerving past two expensive sport cars that were racing down main street. "Have Dick handle that," I said.

"On it. Also, the great Batman supporting a law-breaking criminal? Hell must have frozen over."

"I don't agree with what he did." I explained, "What I meant was that this crime appears too retaliatory in nature for Joker. Do you seriously believe he'd attack a bunch of kids for wearing blackface and calling themselves Beyonce?"

Barbara thought for a second, "No, you're right. I honestly see him joining them. So what? Someone trying to frame the Joker?"

"More than likely," I said. More than likely, it was a student that heard about the party beforehand that wanted to show their peers the errors of their ways.

But there was another question that was in the back of my mind, one I didn't want to ask Oracle.

"Verify that Joker's still in Arkham," I asked her, pushing the other thought out of my head. If the Joker had escaped afterall...

"I'm still waiting for a response, Batman, but I did already contact them," she said, an obvious sign of annoyance in her voice. She was upset that I'd insinuated that she was incompetent. That wasn't my intention, but there wasn't enough time to apologize. I was already there.

"Fill me in when you do receive word. I want cameras, audio, and door logs uploaded to our server for analysis. Batman out."

I stepped out of the Batmobile to witness the horror of the attack's aftermath.

All around me were men in gasmasks, running wild like ants in a fire. From behind the cordon, I could see a house in the distance; it was engulfed in white and green smoke. The ant-like men scurried in and out of the building, carrying people on stretchers to a fleet of waiting ambulances. Some of the children were lucky and managed to regain their ability to walk earlier than the rest. Those lucky ones were sequestered under a tree some odd yards away from the fraternity house. They coughed and cried, with bits of uncontrollable laughter interrupting every gasp for air. The youths would be traumatized with memories of this night for the rest of their lives, something that my more sadistic and cynical side couldn't fully hate.

When I heard it was a blackface party, I felt a shame well up within my heart. I'd hoped that the nationwide fad had finally died out, but it hadn't. Parties such as that seemed to return like Solomon Grundy, each time with a new generation swearing that it wasn't a big deal or that blackface wasn't always offensive. I'd hoped that there never would be one here in Gotham, but I was wrong. I'd finally give Clark that Metropolis had one win over my own city; their last major blackface scandal happened in the fifties.

"Holy shit, it's Batman!" I heard a voice exclaim from the crowd of passerby a few feet away. Camera flashes began to turn away from the injured college kids and towards me. As usual, I didn't engage them. I didn't need nor want their fanfare, questions, or blame.

Detective Harvey Bullock was maintaining the cordon. He scowled when he saw me, and I returned the greeting.

"Didn't think something like this would wind up on your radar, Bats," he said as he motioned for two officers to remove the wooden blockades.

Sliding in between the hole they formed, I didn't respond.

"Gordon's not here yet, told me to give you the details," he continued. There was a pause in his speech as he looked at me expectantly, waiting for me to respond to his comment.

I simply remained silent and continued walking.

Bullock pointed a thumb towards the building, "What we've got there, is a counter-active agent from the eggheads at Wayne. Supposed to neutralize the effects o' the acid, but so far....well, you can tell it ain't working too good."

"I'll pass that on to Wayne the next time I see him," I responded.

Bullock scowled at me again, but continued on with his brand of professionalism. "Thank you, jackass. Like I was saying, the gas don't work too great in stopping the venom, but at least it's safe enough for the boys t'get in and out."

"Are any of them lucid?" I asked, pointing towards the students under the tree.

Bullock nodded, "Had a feeling you'd ask. Only one is, claims he has an immunity to th'Venom and recovered just in time to see the perp leaving."

"Well, that's lucky. Too lucky?" Barbara's voice chimed in the back of my head.

"There's such a thing as being too suspicious, Oracle," I reminded her.

Bullock stared at me for a second then rolled his eyes. "I probably don't even want to know."

The detective led me to his car: an unmarked beater sedan that reeked of schwarma from ten feet away. In the rear passenger side, a young man sat with his head in his hands. He looked like he'd been crying. When I opened the door, however, his face changed entirely.

"Batman? Oh my god it is you! Can you believe I've been inhaling Joker Venom for eight years now and yet this is my first time meeting you?" He was a fanboy. From his comment, I'd hoped that he wasn't a groupie. I wanted to ask him what he meant when he said he'd been inhaling Venom for eight years, but I was too distracted.

He was a natural ginger, as much was obvious from the few hairs peeking out from the underside of his bald-cap. The beard around his face was obviously fake, with exposed wires hanging from his ears. There was a salt-and-pepper fake afro in his hands, and he was dressed in an old suit unlike any that would be made today. Looking at the brown makeup caked on his hands, I found myself growling at him.

"Hey, down boy!" Barbara said in my ears. I didn't follow her instructions.

"I-I'm Fredrick Douglas," he explained with an awkward laugh. I leaned forward, and he gulped nervously. "It's supposed to be honoring..."

"It isn't," I said in my deepest scary voice.

The kid jumped, "Look, Batman. I'm not a racist!"

"And yet here you are."

He didn't say anything to that.

"Tell me everything," I said once I'd grown tired of his discomfort.

The kid's name was Adrian, and he was a graduate student one semester away from his Ph.D. in political science. He worked as a teller in his aunt's bank for the past eight years to help pay for school. In eight years, the Joker had attacked that bank three different times, all on days that he was working. That's why the gas only paralyzed him for a moment, he'd built up immunity to it over the years.

The party was to commemorate Black History Month. Everyone would come as a prominent figure in Black history, drink lean, and listen to rap for the entire night. The invites specifically stated that no "sjw's" were allowed. Adrian himself wasn't technically allowed because he was a graduate student and the university had very clear rules about graduate students at undergraduate fraternity activities, but some of the undergraduates were his friends, so they invited him anyway.

"And you thought going to a blackface party was a good idea?" I asked him.

"I didn't know it was going to be all-blackface," he protested.

I grabbed his wrist and raised his hand to his face, "So you thought you'd be the only one? That doesn't make this look better, Adrian."

He didn't respond to that.

Adrian continued with his report of the party. It was a very lively and crowded affair, so no one noticed anyone strange entering the room. The first two canisters went off at the DJ's table and snack table respectively, more than likely an attempt to incapacitate as many people as possible. Adrian recognized the gas by its scent and tried to get away, but was paralyzed and lost consciousness before he could. Soon, though, he came to and saw the culprit still spraying victims.

"Didja recognize the guy?" Bullock inquired, trying to be useful.

Adrian shook his head, "No. But it was one of us, I think. Like, he was there for the party."

That piqued my interest, "He was in costume?"

"Yeah. He was wearing this baggy, striped shirt, tattered pants, and a dixie hat. He had dreads, but those might've been fake now that I think of it. And he was wearing blackface too, with this blood-red lipstick."

"Like one'a them old movies?"

I nodded, "Likely trying to make a statement about the minstrelsy the fraternity was putting on."

Adrain scoffed, "So it was one of those sjws, just like I thought. I guess that makes it okay for him wearing the face paint, huh?"

I walked away from him. I didn't need him anymore. I needed to check out the rest of the building for clues.

The interior was quiet. In the time it took for me to question Adrian, Bullock's men had already cleared everyone out. There were only one or two CSI's in the building, taking pictures of the crime scene behind their own gas masks. One of them jumped when she saw me.

The floor was covered in puddles of liquid. Most of it was identifiable as lean just from the color. I felt bad for the owners of the house, that much alcohol was never going to come out of the wooden floors properly. There were other puddles, too, but those were vomit. I wasn't sure if the lean or the venom caused it. I walked past all the puddles, discarded food, and crushed pills, all the while fighting the urge to raise up my cape in disgust.

The room looked like a tornado hit it. The furniture was overturned. All the lamps, chairs, and tables had tumbled to the floor and laid out in awkward positions. I could tell the room used to be covered in pictures, because there were a few lying on the floor in their own piles of broken glass. The television was still upright, but the screen was cracked and the picture warped. I deduced that the chances of the partygoers doing this themselves was unlikely. Sure, some of the damage was probably caused before the attack, but I found it hard to believe it would have gotten this bad without any attempt to stop the party. Plus, there was one object in the room that looked completely unharmed, almost as though intentionally so.

The object was a picture hanging on the wall adjacent to me. I walked up to it and scanned it with my eyes. There was nothing too suspicious about its placement. The frame was a brown, polished surface, and there was a small plaque at the bottom. The photograph showed a group of young men in suits, standing behind a freshly planted sapling. It was the active members from the year 1978, judging by the plaque. One member in particular stood out like a sore thumb.

"Could be a clue, have your men bag it." I said.

"What the—" Gordon exclaimed. "No. No that's not fair! How did you know I was behind you?"

I didn't feel like explaining to Gordon that seeing his reflection in the glass of the picture frame isn't a superhuman feat.

I tapped the picture, "What do you think?"

He grumbled and sighed, "The greatest detective in the world asking what I think..."

Gordon cleaned his glasses and stared at the picture. "Should I recognize one of these guys or something?"

"In this entire photograph, there's only one Black member pictured. He's in the back."

"And it's the only thing untouched in this entire room," Jim realized.

"Not exactly," I said as I pointed to scratches on the wall. I'd only noticed after he approached, but their position and shape indicated that the picture had been knocked from its position and slid down the wall.

"You're saying it fell? I could see that." He rubbed his chin, a sure sign that he was thinking something he wasn't confident enough to say.

"You know what that means, right?" I asked. I didn't like asking rhetorical questions, but I found they were effective in getting him to speak up. Jim was a good cop, I couldn't afford for him to grow to self-conscious.

"Well, obviously any picture that falls has to be picked back up. But if you're suggesting that Joker picked it up-"

"Not Joker," I interrupted a bit angrier than I wanted to appear. "He's in Arkham."

Gordon gave me a pedantic look. In the whites of his eyes I could see every failure I'd ever experienced with the psychotic clown.

"And you've verified that?" He asked.

"Working on it," was my curt response.

Gordon sighed, "Batman, usually you're the first one-"

"A blackface frat party where all the attendees get sprayed with black paint, Jim! A room torn apart but the only unharmed decoration is a picture of a Black pledge. Probably the first if not the only Black member of Gotham's Gamma Epsilon Omega. Don't act like this is Joker's M.O."

He created a barrier between us with his palms. "Okay, okay. You have a point there. So are we saying this guy here's the suspect?"

"You're thinking too much like a cop," I said, "It's not that simple. Look into him if you want, but I doubt you'd find anything conclusive. Rehanging the picture was an act of respect, not of egoism."

"I get it, someone unrelated. This is a racial crime."

I didn't love the way he said the category, but I let it slide.

"One of my officers mentioned hearing talk about backlash from the university's Black Student Union when the news hit," Jim said while slipping on a pair of gloves.

"Could be worth looking into," I agreed. "But I'm still skeptical. Bullock's witness said there was one perp. I don't think the average college student could manage to pull off something like this on a whim. Why would they have the Joker Venom on hand?"

Jim nodded. With dancer-like grace, he raised the frame from it's setting and turned it over. There was no opening; the picture had been glued to the wood, then glass was placed on top of it.

"There goes that theory," he said.

"And that's another thing." I said, "Joker always leaves a calling card. If your officers didn't see it when they first walked in, it probably doesn't exist."

"So we're dealing with a Joker copycat. Most likely Black, hates racists and pulls pranks to shame them." Jim sighed, "I need to get out of this city."

Suddenly, Harvey Bullock came running into the room, holding his phone aloft.

"Ya guys see this!"

Gordon and I turned to him. The commissioner took the phone out of Bullock's hands, and the detective bent over gasping for air.

"Calls...himself...Minstrel," Bullock said.


	5. A Message from Minstrel

The familiar fanfare fills the air around millions of Gotham's television sets. WWGC's familiar logo, the pigeon in flight carrying a pen, appears on the screen. It's soon replaced by the interior of the WWGC newsroom, a familiar sight to many of it's regular viewers. What isn't familiar, however, is the man sitting in the spot usually occupied by Vicky Vale.

With his pitch-black makeup, giant, red lips and bulbous eyes, the stranger makes an entire city recoil. Some in horror, some in embarrassment, some in laughter and validation. The hypnotic swing of the large, black, yarn locks beneath his straw Dixie hat captivated thousands of Gothamites. A wide smile spread across his face, giving him an appearance so disturbing that it traumatized an entire generation of Gotham's children.

"Greetings, citizenry and visitors of Gotham City," he eloquently elucidated. In the background of the studio, the sounds of a banjo strumming a light, fast tune began to play. The figure simply stared into the camera for a minute and a half, not saying anything or even commenting on the music as it played.

Finally, he raised one hand, pointing up as though the source of the sound was right above his head.

"Currently, your ears are being pleasured by the musical genius of the great Nina Simone. Your banjoist is yours truly, and the piece is entitled Mississippi Goddamn."

He took up a sheet of white paper from his desk, nodding his head and contorting his face as though he were actually reading it. But his eyes were crossed. One was staring down at the paper while the other was still looking down at the screen. The disgusting body horror sent many mothers anxious, as all around the city they warned their children not to attempt it.

"I see," Minstrel said as he turned the paper over. His eye was still stuck in the same position. With his left hand, he took a finger and repositioned it properly, so it too looked straight at the camera.

"It appears that Miss Simone was inspired to compose this masterpiece after receiving news of the murders of Medgar Evars, Addie Mae Collins, Cynthia Wesley, Carole Robertson, and Carol Denise McNair."

With each name, a black-and white picture flew past the impromptu reporter. A later analysis of google searches would indicate that for the next two days each of the victim's names, preceded by the phrase "who was" would dominate searches for the area.

"In the aftermath of their brutal murders," the Minstrel continued, "Miss Simone was enraged. She went to her garage and decided that she needed to construct a gun. Her exact target was unclear to her in the moment, but she resolved to figure out who to target first after her tool was constructed."

At that moment, the strange figure turned away from the camera for the first time. His head hung low while he shook it in disapproval. This break in his monologue continued for eighteen seconds before he suddenly snapped his head up and reformed his wide, over-exuberant smile.

"Miss Simone did not go on a shooting rampage, however. Instead, she was rescued from her fit of rage by her husband, who reminded her that she wasn't a killer but instead a musician. There were better ways a woman such as her could help the situation."

The song continued to play, but the instrumental was overshadowed by the sound of Nina Simone's voice wailing throughout the studio. People in nursing homes began to dance to the familiar sound.

"And so, this classic protest song was born. Nina realized that to create music was better than to take life, so she set to work over this song, Mississippi Goddamn, and the rest is history. Black History. This has been your Black history minute, Gotham City."

The broadcast went black.

Three seconds later, the broadcast came back.

"I, of course, will not write songs to combat murderers," Minstrel said with a blank, unsmiling face.

The broadcast went black again.

Ten seconds later, the broadcast still wasn't back.

Ten more seconds later, the broadcast came back again.

"By the way," Minstrel said while holding the camera aloft in his hands, "I do of course mean that I'm about to go on another killing spree. Stop me if you can, Batman."

The broadcast went black.

One second later, the broadcast came back.

"This is Minstrel, by the way. Should have mentioned that. Okay, for real this time. Ex-oh-ex-oh."


	6. Arkham Asylum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Batman and his trusted Partner, Night Wing, return to Arkham Asylum to interrogate their nefarious foe, the Joker!

They say only the worst criminals wind up in Arkham, but that isn't true. The worst criminals wind up in Wallstreet. Arkham isn't even truly a home for the criminally insane, it's a home for everyone that society wants to forget about. It's nightmare fuel to keep children in line, and medicated people too scared of retaliation to ask to switch to a different prescription. 

As Bruce Wayne, I'd tried everything I could to fix Arkham, and I still do. But I truly think it's hopeless. The place is more corrupt than the GCPD, and that's saying something. The gaurds are abusive, the doctors all quacks, and the bureaucratic red tape surrounding the place makes admission and release a nightmare. I honestly believe the whole place should be torn down. 

But it's what I have to work with.

When Oracle confirmed that the Joker was locked up in Arkham during Minstrel's attack, I wasn't surprised. The crime didn't seem to fit Joker. It wasn't too hard to eventually convince Gordon that our Minstrel likely bought some Joker Venom off the self-titled Clown Prince. 

"But," Gordon said to me, "what in the hell could someone have that the Joker of all people would want?"

I was glad he asked the question. I myself had been wondering it since I first realized that Joker could't have been behind the attack. An average college student couldn't just walk up to Joker with three-week's pay and ask for a gallon of his most well-known weapon. 

The entire situation was too strange. The Venom was more than just Joker's favorite weapon, it was his calling card. He'd never let just any one run around spraying it, no matter how much money they gave him. Minstrel had to be special in the Joker's eyes, or atleast have something special to trade it. The idea of what the Joker would consider special bothered me, because it could only spell trouble for the people of Gotham.

I had to talk to Joker, that was the only way to crack this mystery. I recruited Nightwing to come with me, in case any complications arose while we were at Arkham. I didn't need to be alone during another riot in the facility. But that wasn't the only reason. I wasn't infallible, an extra set of eyes and ears could be helpful in a mystery like this. 

The orderly that led Nightwing and I through to the Joker's room was named Clifton. He was a short, thin man who looked like he'd be more suited to taking care of the elderly than working at Arkham, with deranged criminals that wouldn't hesitate to kill him. Clearly aware of that fact, Clifton had two night sticks and a taser attached to his belt. Odd attire for an orderly, but warranted in this case.

"He's right through here, Mr. Batman," he said while leading my partner and I through a long, narrow, corridor.

"Just Batman will do for him. Mister works for me, though. Please call me Mister," Nightwing joked.

The orderly smirked, "Okay, Mr. Mullet."

"It was popular back then," Nightwing exclaimed in protest.

"No it wasn't," I said. To the orderly, I asked, "how many nurses usually tend to him?"

The orderly stopped in front of a cell door and reached for a ring of keys on his belt. The door was a large, rusted sheet of unidentifiable metal with one viewing slot at the top. On the left side was a series of shiny, new locks. All analog, but designed to be nearly impossible to pick. It took me three minutes last time I had to sneak in.

Turning to me, Clifton explained, "A physical lock is better given his computer skills. And it's usually just me, sir."

"You?" Nightwing's tone was a bit more surprised than polite. He began stammering, trying to undo the personal injury.

Clifton held up a hand, "Nah, it's cool. I know what you're thinking: tiny dude like me? Weighing one hundred forty-one pounds? No way I can stand a chance if this fool goes on a rampage again. And you're right. But what no one ever seems to realize is that everyone thinks like that." 

He pointed to each cell surrounding us, one by one, counting off their occupants. 

"Killer Croc used to be in that one. Next to him was Mr. Freeze. Pyshco Pirate. Condiment King. Cat Man. Solomon Grundy. I treated all of them, and confronted some of them during riots. They usually leave me alone, since they don't see me as a threat, or anything interesting enough to kill."

He tapped the Joker's cell, which he was still struggling to unlock. "As for this guy? People used to draw straws when it came to check on him. But I wasn't as scared as most, so I just started volunteering my services. For every minute I spend with him, I get fifteen from the orderly pool added to my time card. My student loans will be all paid off in six months."

Nightwing was impressed. I wasn't. I was too busy counting locks.

"Seven locks. That's a fire hazard."

Clifton turned to me and raised a sarcastic eyebrow, "I don't think a man that dresses in a militarized children's costume and punches people for a living should judge us. And I'm one of your fans, Batman."

"No one deserves to die in a fire," I said.

Clifton shrugged. "If Heaven is a place on Earth, then why can't Hell be?"

The last lock finally gave way. The "click" of the bolt sliding out of place rang around the entire hall. Clifton jumped when heard it.

The Joker was crouching in the darkest corner of the room. His head resting in his knees while his arms hugged himself, the man looked like a frightened toddler during a thunderstorm. Not phased by his latest ruse, I walked into the room and prompted Nightwing and Clifton to follow.

"Joker," I commanded.

He whispered something I couldn't quite make out.

"Hey, Joker," Clifton said, "you got visitors today. No, it's not Harley Quinn. And no, it's not Jennifer Lawrence in a Harley Quinn costume, so don't even ask again."

He whispered something else. 

Nightwing hummed suspiciously, "I don't know, Batman. Maybe we really did catch him on a bad day."

I raised a hand to hush my apprentice up. Leaning closer, I struggled to make out what he was saying. His voice was hoarse and his speech fast, but eventually I realized that he was reciting a song. 

"Now the world don't move to the beat of just one drum. What might be right for you may not be right for some. It takes diff'r'nt strokes, it takes diff'r'nt strokes, it takes diff'r'nt strokes to move the world. Now the world don't move to the beat of just one drum. What might be right for you may not be right for some. It takes diff'r'nt strokes..."

On and on, he sang the theme song to Different Strokes. I never liked the show, but Dick was obsessed with it for a long time. I never understood why.

Clifton walked up and poked Joker with his nightstick.

"Hey!" The clown suddenly said as he jumped up, "Buy a guy dinner first!"

I raised the Joker into the air and threw him onto his bed.

"Uh-oh. I didn't know this was a lemon slashfic!" He laughed at his own joke.

"We have questions for you, Joker." Nightwing said as he approached the clown.

Joker ignored both Nightwing and myself, and turned back to Clifton. "I hope you wore your Helmut when we...you know." 

Clifton's eyes widened in horror. He raised his stun gun and pointed it straight at the Joker.

"Why did you say that name? WHY DID YOU SAY THAT NAME?!" 

Nightwing came at him from the side and threw him to the ground, disarming him in the process.

"How did you know my first name!" Clifton continued to scream.

The Joker blushed like a school girl and shrugged. "What can I say? I know a lot of things."

"Calm down!" I ordered the screaming youth. He immediately hushed. I told him to leave us alone and take some time to cool off. 

"He knew my name, Batman!" The orderly protested, "No one knows my name except H.R.! How did he find out? Why did he find out!" 

"To get you to react exactly as you are now, so leave," Nightwing said as he began to walk the orderly out of the room.

Helmut Clifton clearly wasn't satisfied with leaving, judging from the scowl on his face. He relented nevertheless and allowed Nightwing to guide him out the door, closing it behind him. Internally, I breathed a sigh of relief. If he wanted, Clifton could have just told us to leave, but that would mean we'd have to go to the trouble of sneaking back into the hospital. I had to thank young Clifton from preventing me from going through that much trouble.

"Well, well," the Joker began, "We're finally alone." 

He leaned in close and whispered, "Brucey."

I ignored his taunt, instead focusing on the task at hand.

"There was an attack on a fraternity house last night. Joker Venom was used, and now there's a criminal taking credit. His motif has some similarities to your own."

The Joker gasped, "I am appalled, Batman! While I have been known to don the Vaudeville shirt and straw hat, my style could hardly be compared to such offensive theatrics as a Jim Crow show!" 

"So you do know," Nightwing said, stepping forward. "Tell us everything. Who is this clown?" 

"Why, I believe this rogue calls himself Minstrel, doesn't he?" The Joker said with a demonic chuckle, "Or atleast that's what they said on the television." 

"There's no television in this room," Nightwing said, glancing around the small cell to be sure. Indeed, the only things in the room were a bed, toilet/sink, and a card table in the far Northwest corner.

The Joker tapped his temple, "I meant the TV in my head, Sherlock! I keep the ol' idiot box in there."

"A fitting place," I commented. "What connection does Minstrel have with you?"

"I believe we're both Tauruses and our mothers dreamed of fish before we were born." 

Nightwing groaned in annoyance. His training still wasn't complete. He didn't realize that the Joker all but confessed to knowing the Minstrel well.

"Why did you give him the Joker Venom?" I asked. "Did he pay for it? Or did he find one of your supply stores?" 

The Joker turned his head and looked at a picture of a window that appeared to have been torn from a catalog. 

"What a pretty day," he remarked.

"Answer the question," Nightwing snapped. 

The Joker turned to him again, "I already told you everything you needed to know, bird brat. If I just gave you all the answers, that would spoil the ending." 

He jumped onto his bed and raised an impassioned fist into the air, "These people demand drama! Blood! Mystery! SEX! If we fail to supply, then they won't vote for our story!"

I didn't respond. There was a question I wanted to ask the Joker, but I wanted to see if Nightwing had figured it out first. I gave him a look, and my partner's face relaxed as he took a deep breath in. I could see the mental cogs in his mind turning from the scrunched expression of his face. After a while, a smile spread across his face and I knew he'd figured it out.

"How old was Minstrel when you adopted him," Nightwing asked.

Joker's smile grew even wider as a glee I'd never seen him express took over his eyes. He sat back down on the bed and leaned so close to my face that it set off every alarm in my mind. The skin of his face was as pale as a corpse's, and his eyes were yellow like his teeth. Surprisingly, his breath was minty fresh, while his body odor smelled like charcoal. It would have been unnerving if I hadn't been so used to being that close to him.

"My dear, darling nephew came to me when he was fifteen years old. Harley was so overjoyed; she'd always wanted a son or a little brother, dear Minstrel could be both. And he was Black! That's really en vogue for adoption right now, you know?"

I didn't say anything. Letting Joker talk was the best way to deal with him.

"Do you want to see a picture of him!" His scream was hysterically high, making his statement feel more like a desperate demand.

He scurried on all fours like an animal to the other side of the room. Lifting a brick from it's setting, he pulled out a bundle of papers from the wall, then stood up and walked towards me with pride.

"Here," he said as he thrust the bundle in my face, "my darling baby boy. I think." 

I leafed through the pictures one by one. As anyone would expect, they looked like something a child would draw. They were all stick figures with large, circular heads and wide grins. Minstrel was drawn with brown crayon, where as Joker was drawn with a purple one. The activities they performd varied from murdering dogs to swimming at the beach. 

One picture in particular caught my eye. It showed Joker, Harley, and Minstrel all standing together, with their arm-lines connected. Like a family holding hands. In the distance, there was a giant circus tent on fire with silhouettes running around frantically. 

Was this another one of Joker's fantasies, or was he openly telling me that Minstrel was a circus child? It would definitely explain how the two met, but it didn't bring me any closer to figuring out who he was. Joker didn't usually travel far from Gotham, but that didn't necessarily mean he couldn't have gone to any circus in the world and recruited a kindred sociopath. 

I made a mental note to look into circus disappearances later. There was still the matter of the Joker giving Minstrel access to the Venom. I could tell that he was trying to let us know that he did so because Minstrel was his nephew. But that alone wasn't enough. Was Minstrel only acting under his "uncle's" orders, or was his uncle the one playing second string this time? 

"If Minstrel was running around with you and Harley since he was fifteen," Nightwing said, "How come we've never met him before?" 

Joker gasped and grabbed his chest, "Clutch the pearls! Do you seriously believe that I would send a CHILD into the field of our work before their training was complete? What kind of irresponsible sociopath do you think I am!"

Nightwing snickered. I glared at him. He stopped snickering.

"I do hope you enjoy him, Toy Wonder," the Joker said, "I made him specifically to be a playmate to you. Once you took over from daddy here." 

"We've heard enough." I said.

"What? He told us nothing-"

"We've heard enough," I said again. 

The Joker nodded, "Good Batman! Now go! Solve the Mystery of the Minstrel with the clues I gave you! Go be the hero! Godspeed to you both!" 

He laughed all while we walked out of his cell. We could still hear him from the other side of the door once Clifton locked it again.


	7. Witness Statement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Minstrel attacked four people in a strip mall. Why?

_Take it from the beginning._

I'd heard some talk from my boy, Joaquin 'bout this new shipment of Jordan's supposed to come in--

_Not that far._

Right. Sorry. I guess...so by the time I got to the mall, it was already going down, right? I was trying to make my way to the Footlocker, but there were all these people blocking my way. I figured it had to be, some kinda promotion or something. But then I got closer and I realized that they were yelling. 

_An angry mob? _

More like an angry audience. Curiosity got one on me, so I walked forward to see what was going on. Had to be about thirty niggas there, all of them screaming some shit I couldn't even follow. 

_Can you give us an example?_

"Get the fuck out of here," someone said. That stuck out to me the most. A lot of people were saying it, kind of like a chant.

There were a few old heads in the crowd, too. One standing near me was shouting something about marching with King. I could't make out the context, though. 

And then there were all those people shouting 'racist' over and over, like they couldn't think of what else to say. 

_Was it Minstrel? Is that what they were mad about?_

Not exactly. I mean, I won't say no cuz my own people don't even know how to view him, you know? Niggas hate him one day, then swear he's the second coming the next. A few people always hated him, even less always liked him like talking bout it. Thing is, Minstrel hadn't even arrived yet. I didn't even think he would.

At first, I thought it was going to be your MAGA boys, you know? I figured they came round trying to pull one of their demonstrations and the hood just wasn't having that today. While I tried to make my way closer to the center of the crowd, I was expecting to see some white kids wearing red hats and giving nazi salutes. 

_But that's not what you saw? _

Oh, there was white kids. But...they were wearing black makeup all over their faces.

_Blackface? So trying to look like African Americans? Why? _

Nah lady you not understanding. They were wearing black makeup. Like the actual color. And big red lipstick. There was four of them, two dudes and two females. The chicks had these giant fake breasts and fake butts, and their hair was tied up all weird. Like they were trying to do bantu knots or some shit.

_What about the men?_

They were wearing these big, baggy shorts that looked like old canvas. They had on these fake afro wigs, too. Where'd they even find all that? That's what I'm wondering.

_Were they saying anything?_

Oh, of course they were. They were screaming to be heard over all the people shouting at them. Saying how they weren't trying to be racist, but were trying to show their support of us.

_What?_

I'm not going to dive too deep into their logic, okay? 

_Fair enough._

So anyway, that's when he appeared. There was this loud crash that took everyone's attention away for a quick second. Shit was still heated, but we were all distracted momentarily just cuz we couldn't believe it.

A trashcan had been thrown out the window of a nearby Pizzaria.

_Like...like in _Do the Right Thing, _the Spike Lee joint?_

Yeah. On the other side of the glass was Minstrel. I could hear cursing in the background and saw that the chef was running out the kitchen. _Running_-running! Dude looked like he was about to clock eighty five and join the Doc and Marty. And he was carrying this huge knife. You know, one of those square ones that chef's use? A cleaver, that's what it's called!

_What did Minstrel do?_

This nigga cold as hell. He turned his head halfway. Didn't even turn it the full way and look this man directly in the eye. Just a half-turn was enough. Chef took one look at who was standing there and slowly put his knife on one of the tables.

_And how did the crowd respond?_

We were just as speechless as Chef at first. Speaking for myself, I didn't know what to say. Misntrel's famous, yeah, and I think he's kinda cool, but I don't really know how to talk to a dude like that.

So we all just stared at him while he slowly walked out of the pizza place with this wide grin on his face. He came through the window, with glass crunching under his shoes with each step. When he was out, he picked up the trashcan that he'd just tossed out, and sat it with the flat end up. He sat on that, crossed his legs, and then he just looked at us. 

So the white kids spoke up first. The bigger of the dudes walked up all humble and head lowered, you know?

"We didn't mean anything by it," he said.  
  
Then one of them little white girls stepped up and pulled something from her pocket. I couldn't see what it was, but she was showing it to him. She said, "See? We support Black Lives Matter. We hate Trump, too. But we respect you and what you're trying to do and we wanted to show that. We're activists like you."

_What? _

Really not trying to follow their logic, sis. 

I got a friend that's always saying profound shit. He said the thing about white people that they don't even realize is that even when it's super obvious to everyone else that they shouldn't do something, they just go and do it anyway because they know they can point at us and scream double standard. I think that's what that was, I think they knew full well that what they were doing was stupid, but they felt like just because Minstrel did it, that was enough to justify it. It didn't matter to them how many niggas hated Minstrel. Minstrel did it, so they could too.

So then the other dude walks up and he starts talking about the twins-

_The twins?_

You didn't hear about that? The twins that were walking down past the new Queen Industries building, and got the cops called on them. Shot on sight. The brother died and the girl's in a coma right now, doesn't even know that her brother's dead! And they were only fifteen years old! How come you don't know that!

_I did, I did. I just didn't realize that's what you meant. Please, continue._

So the second guy is talking to Minstrel about the twins, yeah? He's saying something about how they were planning on going to GCPD in their makeup to protest for the cops that shot the twins to be fired. Then Minstrel just walks up and punches him with a wide ass grin still on his face.

So the two girls are screaming now. The guy's buddy jumps up and starts yelling at Minstrel. Throwing out a bunch of "hey buddies" and shit. Minstrel doesn't pay him no mind, he just kicks the same dude over and over, grin still wide as hell.

Then the dude grabs Minstrel's shoulder to stop him from beating on his friend. My man does not even flinch! He doesn't turn around, he doesn't say anything. 

White guy tries to turn Minstrel around. And he manages to spin him, sure. But Minstrel just punches _him_ and he goes down. Just one hit and that boy was out cold.

_What about the girls?_

Well, shoot. I guess Minstrel ain't much for that gentlemanly stuff. Soon as he was done with the guys, he turns to the girls immediately. His grin looked bigger and his eyes got wider when he saw them. Minstrel starts walking up to them while one of them gets on her knees and makes her hands like she's praying. She's begging Minstrel to stop, but her friend is egging him on. The friend pulls a knife from her pocket and starts screaming how she isn't afraid of him.

Minstrel walks up and kicks the kneeling girl dead in her head. She lands on the ground and rolls for a few feet. I could tell he wanted to go towards her body, probably to curb-stomp her. But before he gets a chance, the chick with the knife comes up and starts slashing the air wildly, screaming and cursing the entire time.

Minstrel just yawns.

_He yawned?_

Isn't that what I just said? He yawned! He put his hand to his mouth and sighed. It was obviously fake, but that wasn't the point. He was trying to piss her off.

Knife girl ran up to Minstrel, and he took a huge leap back. She runs up to him again, and he takes another step back, right? This happens perhaps three more times, and then she gets in arm's length and he doesn't back up. She goes to cut or stab him, and he pulls a damn banjo from behind his back.

_A banjo?_

Yes.

_Where did he get it?_

From behind, like I said.

_Behind his body? What was behind him? Why didn't she notice the banjo before?_

The banjo wasn't there before! Minstrel backed himself into a damn wall, then reached behind his back and a banjo just appeared. It was like an old cartoon. Faster than any of us could see, he pulled out a banjo and hit the bitch dead in the face!

_Language._

Sorry ma'am.

_Then what happened?_

Well, after that, the girl fell to the floor. Minstrel reached into his pocket and pulled out a can of spray paint. I don't have to tell you what he did with that, right? Good.

_And the crowd was still around?_

We all were. No one left, I don't think. We watched Minstrel paint their faces. And when he was done, we all started cheering.

_You cheered? _

Yeah. And I'm not ashamed of it. Those kids were out there in blackface and fake breasts! They were making a mockery of us and no one was doing anything. They had the audacity to act like they were helping us, but that was just an excuse. Then Minstrel came and put them in check? Yeah, we cheered. I cheered. Like I said, people still felt some type of way about Minstrel, but when he did _that_, he secured our trust entirely.

_So then what happened? _

Well...

*sigh*

At first we thought he was into it, you know? He was sitting on the car, watching us all with that wide smile of his, and we thought that meant he was happy. And we were more certain when he started laughing. The way he laughs, man, it's like the most pure laughter in the world. He sounds like my niece, even though he has the voice of an adult man. In hindsight, it's creepy but in that moment, he made us all want to laugh too.

Those kids lying on the ground looked funny to me. I felt like Minstrel had told me the greatest secret of the universe by beating on them. They went out in black costumes, thinking that they'd get fanfare and praise. But all they got was blood and bruises. It was funny.

And then, I'm not quite sure when, Minstrel stood up on the car. He was still laughing. His arms were grasping his body while he rocked back and forth on his heels. He was dying laughing.

But he wasn't laughing at the kids. He was laughing at us. And after a while, I think we all realized it.

_Why do you think he was laughing at you?_

...

_Answer the question._

I-I don't think you'd understand, ma'am. I don't really understand it either. The best I can say is that when a Joker wannabe in Black face is standing up and laughing at _you_, it changes your perspective. I think when Minstrel stood there laughing at us, we realized that he didn't see us as any different from the kids he'd just beaten up. In fact...

_In fact what?_

In fact...I think he might have felt more for them than us, even if only for a second. It felt like we'd just disappointed him in some way. But for the life of me, I couldn't figure out why.  
  
_...How did it make you feel?_

*sniffs* It makes me want to cry. I feel sad now. Sadder than I've ever been. Cuz deep down, I know why he was laughing, I do. It's something I've been running away from for years. I think we all have. That's why it's so easy for so many of us to hate and love the dude at the same time.

_I don't understand._

Nah. You wouldn't. That's fine though, it's not for ya'll to understand. Minstrel was talking to us, his people, when he was laughing at us. 

In fact...I'm starting to think that's his secret. Like, there's two Minstrel's. There's the one that's for ya'll, the one that beats ya'll up and sprays black paint on people's faces. Then there's the Minstrel for us, and he's the one that throws trashcans through windows then laughs at us all. I think whenever he's speaking to you, he's speaking to us in a different language entirely.

_I still don't really get it. But thank you for your honesty. How are you holding up?_

Honest ma'am? I don't know. I don't think I've ever felt like this before. I feel sad and angry, but more sad. I've never cried in front of a woman before, yet here I am crying in front of you! It's just so much to feel at once. I feel overwhelmed. 

_Fascinating...Thank you for your statement. It'll be very helpful for our search. You can go now._

...

_What? _

It's just, before I go...perhaps just once more?

_No. You're a married man, and a loyal one at that. I kissed you because I had need of you. I have no such need any longer. Besides, if I were to kiss you again it would make my control last longer, and I don't think you want that._

But Miss Ivy! I do! I swear I want it! I would live under your control forever!

_Of course you would. But I don't need you forever, I needed you to tell me what you saw and you did. Go. Before my girlfriend gets too jealous._


	8. Stalking's Only a Crime if You Get Caught

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three different people go about their usual routine. What does this have to do with Minstrel?

It had been a long night, and Joseph Grant was exhausted. He didn't bother turning on the lights of his penthouse when he walked in, choosing instead to let his mind and eyes rest in the darkness. He stood at the welcome mat for a second, taking a deep, relaxing breath as he willed all thoughts of the outside world to melt out of his pores. Satisfied with his newly slowed heart rate, Grant removed his blazer and tie, placing both on the arms of his kaya-wood coat hanger poised by his front door. He stepped out of his fine Italian leather loafers, and untucked his shirt from his pants before he took his first step past the front door.

Though pitch black, Grant could navigate the interior of his penthouse apartment perfectly, the result of spending an astronomical amount of money to own as few possession as possible. He'd had the simple lay out memorized like a dance. 

Five steps forward, mail table. He didn't bother leafing through whatever catalogues and paternity suits his assistants had combed through for the day. Two steps forward, eight steps to the right, kitchenette. The checker-board marble tile floor was hard, but so cold that it was a much needed relief on his feet. Five steps forward, three to the left, his spirit cabinet, so named because it was a much needed relief to his spirits on a day like this.

He poured himself a vodka tonic, and found his eyes had finally adjusted to the dark as soon as he reached to bring the glass to his lips. He had the faint traces of light pollution filtering in from the far window to thank for that. 

Grant decided to finish his nightly ritual in the typical fashion. He walked from the kitchen to the window on the far side of the main room. He didn't even think of sitting in the designer recliners or couches as he passed them. Grant didn't even hesitate at the large, 5KHD television when it enterred his line of sight. All either of those things would do was distract him further. If he was truly to relax and sleep well, he needed the Gotham skyline. 

Grant didn't open the blinds immediately. He took a moment to bathe in the faint glow slipping through. This, he thought, was the most calm he'd ever be. Grant's life was too hectic. Even vacations to island paradises weren't enough to relax him. Massages from fine beauties, a stroll on the green, not even a leisurely afternoon at the theater calmed him. It was only those simple moments with a vodka tonic in his hand, and the light of the city drowning him, could Grant feel truly at peace. 

He removed his phone from his pocket, opened the home assistant app, and ordered the blinds to open...

***

Oliver Walcztloh was told that suburban bliss was the greatest thing a man could hope for in the modern age. That was hard to believe when he had triplets and an ex-wife on a feminist kick. Soccer, Ballet, Gymnastics, home, dinner, bed, repeat. No help from the ex-missus, she was determined to make him do it all himself AND shell out half his monthly wages for alimony. 

"Wicked Bitch of the West," he muttered to himself. 

There was a jackass on the road, as usual. Some idiot in a semi truck that wouldn't let him get over no matter how many times he honked or flashed his lights. Oliver took another look in his rear view mirror...yup, traffic was piling up behind him.

Oliver wished there was some way he could reach out to the cars behind him and telepathically assure them that he wasn't the cause.

His phone started playing the Wicked Bitch's theme song and his heart sank. He looked at the screen on his dashboard, pressing the green button only to find that nothing happened. He had to stab it an ungodly amount of times before it finally answered.

"Really, Oliver?"

"Sharon," he began through gritted teeth, "it's not me, it's this fucking car your brother sold me. The screen's defective or some shit." 

"I don't have time for this," she snapped. Sighing as if _she_ was the one with reason to be stressed out, she continued, "Why haven't you picked up Lacey from Soccer yet?"

He was late, sure, but if she was that angry aobut it, _she_ could always go and get Lacey from soccer. Oliver thought about reaching through the screen and--he pushed the thought out of his mind.

"There's an asshole on the road," he curtly responded.

"So you're on your way, good to know. Five-thirty means five thirty, Oliver! I have no clue why this is so hard for you to comprehend. I manage to do it and-"

"And you're back in school, working a full time job, and dealing with early-onset menopause," he continued. "I've heard the speech before, Phenomenal Woman."

"Yes, and you're an unemployed former athlete coasting by on League settlements and ad royalties," she shouted. "There's no excuse for your perpetual tardiness!"

Oliver pressed the red button. 

"I heard a tapping...ARE YOU TRYING TO HANG UP ON ME?!"

He pressed harder until her screeching finally died.

Finally free of the Wicked Bitch's cacophonous voice, Oliver said "fuck it" and turned his blinker on. Carefully mindful of the next lane, he swung his car to the side then floored the gas pedal. He raced past the semi, then re-entered the original lane. At least he got one victory that day.

Going no less than twenty over the limit of every road on the way, it didn't take him long to get to the park. He pulled into a handicapped spot and looked at his watch. The idiot in the semi made him twenty minutes late. 

Oliver got out of the car and looked around him. The parking lot was empty save one or two other cars. He could see the soccer field in the distance. Though covered in shadows cast by the trees in the twilight, he could tell that it had long been abandoned. There wasn't even a single orange soccer cone to be seen in the green beyond.   
  
Frantically, he reached into his pocket, breathing a sigh of relief when he saw a text from Lacey. She'd gotten a ride with her friend, Sam, and his parents. Oliver's feelings were mixed. Sam's dad was a balless beta that clearly sided with his ex-wife in the divorce, but Sam's mom was trying to stay neutral in the entire process. He hoped that meant she'd convinced her husband not to rat him out to his ex. 

Oliver shook his head as he re-entered his car. As many people do when unaware that they're in a horror story, he neglected to check the back seat...

***

Rebecca Walters couldn't wait to get home. It was the first time in years that she'd have the house to herself. Her son was off in college in Jump City, and her husband was away visiting a sick uncle. She could close up the bakery early and watch Aurora Teagarden on Lifetime until she fell asleep. 

Walters lowered the metal gate to the storefront and secured it with three locks, as usual. Taking in the cool air around her, she began her trek to the subway station a block away.

She thought of her son, Billy, in college during the entirety of her walk. She was glad that he didn't wind up going to Gotham University. After the story on the news about what those horrible Gamma Epsilon Omega boys had done, her last fond memories of the place had been forever tarnished. She didn't want her son surrounded by people that condoned such activities. Jump City was a very liberal place to live, as she'd been told. It was better to have him study there and not make the same little mistakes that she had made. 

She entered the subway terminal and her mood changed immediately. Rebecca Walters was scared. Her pulse was faster, her breath felt fainter, and her movements jittery. She wasn't sure, but she just knew that the disheveled man at the ticket kiosk had looked at her when she walked in.

Walters stole a look at him in response. He was a small, thin man. His clothes were tattered and baggy, as though he stole them off the corpse of a much larger vagrant after killing him. His grey hair sinewed into strands of long, grey dreads that reminded Walters of the Spanish moss trees she saw on her vacation to Louisiana. He had a similarly unkept beard, which was full of crumbs and other material that she couldn't identify. His wide, brown eyes looked sinister, and his face blended into the dark shadows of the terminal too well for her comfort.

Walters wasn't sure that the man was a danger, but she didn't want to take that chance. It was only natural for a woman to be suspicious of strange man in this day and age, after all. She quickly walked up to the turnstiles and placed her card on the reader. The green light flashed and the happy-sounding bell chimed, and she continued through the gate, then down the stairs to her platform.

A minute passed. The train still hadn't arrived. Walters heard footsteps coming down the stairs. She didn't want it to be what she thought. It was. 

The disheveled man was stumbling down the steps, limping like a drunken idiot. She thought she saw him look at her, this time licking his lips expectantly. She wasn't sure. Walters took out her phone, ready in a moment's notice to call...she didn't know. Who would come to rescue her if he attacked her? 

The man stood a few yards away, and Walters was certain he was trying to appear normal for the cameras. It wouldn't do to appear as though he were obviously following her. She felt trapped by the distance. Even if some rescuer appeared, he could say he was minding his own business even if he weren't.

She heard the train before she saw it. The platform filled with the sounds of rolling thunder that she knew from experience could overpower everything else. Now's his chance, she found herself thinking. Over the roar of the train, he could attack and no one would hear. She closed her eyes, expecting to feel a hand on her shoulder or a knife in her back. Neither came.

When the train's doors opened, Walters practically lept into the car and raced to the chair at the furthest end. The car was empty, just as she feared. The man followed her inside, but sat on the opposite end of the train. She looked at the door to her side, determined that she'd run to the next car should he so much as sneeze. 

"Five stops to go," she whispered to herself. She did so again, and again, and again. It became a mantra.

The train stopped. A cop got on, and Walters's heart did a somersault. The man surely wouldn't do anything with an officer on board! She could relax.

The cop was a lanky, skinny kid with adorable freckles and the faintest tuft of red hair peeking from beneath his cap. His green eyes appeared wide, soft and kind, much like Walters's own son. He was likely a new hire, just out of the academy. Still, she felt safer with him there. 

The cop sat three seats away from Walters and pulled a small bible from his pocket. He began to read silently to himself, his body haunched over as though he were a toddler gazing at a picture book. Just like her Billy used to gaze at his picture books. 

At one point, Walters found her eye turning upward, again aligning with the disheveled man. She was positive that time, he had looked in her direction and was still doing so. Was he looking at her, or was he just looking at the cop? She wasn't sure, but she knew that she didn't like either possibility, as they both meant he was definitely up to something. 

Walters reminded herself that the man would be a fool to act with a cop three seats over, and dropped her gaze. She tried to find another part of the train to focus on, and found herself immediately locking eyes with the cop.

The ginger officer looked at Walters, then turned his head to the disheveled man behind him. He turned to Walters again with a puzzled expression, but then turned his head back to the disheveled man. Finally, he stood up, placing his bible onto the seat he'd arisen from and one hand into his pocket. He walked up to where the disheveled man was sitting and plopped himself in the seat right next to him.

The cop didn't speak. The man didn't speak. The cop looked at the man, and the man tried to avoid the gaze of the cop. But there was nowhere for the bum to run, he'd cornered himself into the last seat before a solid wall. They sat there, just like that for a while, and Walters looked on at the strange pair, with an odd chuckle waiting in the back of her throat.

Finally, the train came to a stop at the next station. No one got on.

The cop pulled his hand from his pocket and presented the disheveled man with a few dollars. 

"Take the next one, buddy," he said to the bum.

The disheveled man, eyes wide and terrified, grabbed the cop's pocket change and hightailed off the train. Satisfied, the cop walked back to his original seat and took up his bible again, neither looking at or saying anything to Walters.

After a minute or two of silence, Walters leaned towards the cop and said a quick, "Thank you." 

He nodded respectfully but didn't take his eyes off the pages of his bible. 

Three stops later, it was time for Walters to get off the train. She arose from her seat and began walking to the door, but then she paused and turned back to the officer. Walters tapped him on the shoulder to get his attention.

"Sir? I'm sorry to disturb you but I wanted to thank you again for getting that man off and commend you for the professional, peaceful way you handled the matter."

The cop shrugged, "No problem, ma'am. Just a part of the job, y'know?" 

Walters was satisfied with his response, sure that he'd been properly thanked, and turned again to walk off the train car. 

"Ya know what," the cop said as he suddenly rose from his own seat, "I think I might walk with you. Unless you got someone meeting you from here on out? It's Gotham after all." 

"Oh dear, thank you so much!" Walters nearly cheered for the officer. Truly, she had been nervous about walking back to her apartment alone, but she didn't want to say anything and be a bigger burden. 

The two exited the train at the same time and began walking to the stairs at the far end of the platform. Walters felt a bit awkward with the cop in tow, but ultimately it was better to feel awkward than terrified. With a GCPD officer at her side, no one would dare try anything with her.

"One thing ma'am," the officer suddenly said, "d'ya mind holding on to this for me?" 

He thrust his hat towards her. She reflexively grabbed it without questioning why. The man had given up his hard-earned money and a few minutes of his day to help her, the least she could do was hang onto his hat for him.

"And this too," he said as he placed another item inside the overturned hat in her hands. Again, Walters was glad to tote the item for the officer, wanting to be as helpful to him as she possibly could. 

In the very next second, Walters realized there was something strange about the object he'd just placed into the hat. Beige in color, it kept rolling around and pumping into the hat's walls. Curious, she reached in and pulled it into the light to get a better look at it.

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAH!" 

Walters screamed and dropped the object to the ground. It was soft when she grabbed it, almost like real flesh. The artificial, costume nose was so much like the real thing that it made her want to faint.

"I must say," the cop said in a newer voice, "that was a very rude thing to do. I daresay you've damaged my property, madam." 

Walters watched in horror as the cop reached up to his face and pulled the skin clean off. Beneath the beige, freckled layer that she'd so adored was a horrible face that turned her blood cold. She recognized the black paint and red lipstick from the news, just as any Gothamite would.

What Walters saw was the same face that greeted Joseph Grant when he opened his blinds. It was the same face reflected back at Oliver Walcztloh from his rear-view mirror.

It was my own beautiful visage. The face of a Minstrel.


	9. Another Long Sigh

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Batman arrives at Commisioner Gordon's office to report in on a Mr. Freeze bust earlier that night. But why does the caped crusader bring up Minstrel even though he'd gone silent for days?

A week ago, a clown came to Gotham. He gatecrashed a party and delivered a cruel and twisted justice. Three days later, he beat four stupid kids half to death and destroyed their faces. He hijacked airwaves and terrorized citizens. Then he stopped. We thought it was the second coming of the Antichrist when he first appeared, but after he went quiet, we didn't pay it much mind.

I want to say that the moment's rest allowed me a chance to take a sigh of relief, but this is Gotham. The coffee is either too cold or too hot, there's always a fog and a stink in the air, and the citizens always find some new way to hurt one another. There's no such thing as relief under these conditions.

Two months before the Minstrel first appeared, one of my officers got caught up in a civilian shooting scandal. I had civil rights attorneys and teenagers on Twitter gunning for my neck, demanding that I either fire him or place a hot, led pipe in a particular orifice.

The victims were two African-American teenagers, Jada Sumpter and her twin brother, Eric. Eric died on the scene and the last I checked in, God hadn't granted me that favor and woken up Jada. She's in a hospital with a medically induced coma and I can't even break the news to her that her younger twin is dead.

The officer involved was Namzmiren, a man I've had working the beat for a few years now. A bit of a blowhard who clearly watched too many cop movies, but a good officer nonetheless. He respected God first, the troops second, and the badge third. In a precinct full of Johnny-Look-Aways that were quick to take a buck or bed one of the city's working women, that kind of integrity made him an asset.

Jada and her brother were loitering on a municipal bench outside the new Queen building along with two of their other friends. Those friends fled when Namzmiren appeared on the scene, satisfied that they had gotten the Sumpters into just enough trouble for that day. Jada became provocative and irate when Namzmiren asked them to leave, and Eric was acting dodgy and twitching with guilt. He fit the description of a mugger and suspected dealer that had been reported in the area, so Namzmiren asked to see his identification. His sister became even more argumentative towards my officer. While he was trying to calm her down, Eric reached for a knife in his pocket. The story ends how you'd expect.

A knife was recovered on the scene, confirming his story. Crime scene techs couldn't find any of Eric's DNA on the knife, though they did find Namzmiren's. He made a mistake and handled it on his own without gloves, but the court of public opinion didn't agree.

I had to take in his badge and gun, and the DA was pressured to charge him. Though my heart is with Namzmiren and his family, my official stance is neutral. I'll stand by whatever decision the jury makes. If the court reviews all the evidence and decides that he was wrong, then he was wrong, plain and simple. But I know I won't like the cleanup no matter what that decision is.

***

I felt a feeling of intense, cold nothingness enter my office. A clunk of metal hitting wood soon followed. My back was turned, but I didn't need to look.

"Victor Fries won't be terrorizing Ace Chemical or its employees for a while, I take it?" I put out my cigarette on the window sill, then sat in the old, leather chair of my older wooden desk.

The Batman didn't nod, because he wasn't the type. I imagine that he was conflicted, because he wasn't the talking type either. Finally one of the two won out, and his monotonous voice spilled from beneath his mask.

"He was building a weapon. A modified ballistic freeze gun for mass production. Similar guns appeared at an Intergang auction in Metropolis." Batman pointed down to my desk, where one of the guns was sitting, partially blocking a stack of papers I'd been reading a moment before.

In one night, a man dressed like a bat destabilized a major gangland arms deal by punching a depressed scientist wearing a glass bubble. Nights like these make me wish I'd picked a better career path after high-school. Like interpretive dance.

"I'll have the boys take a look at it. Nice work, Batman." I knew better than to compliment him, he was never flattered. Every failure was the Rapture, and every success was Tuesday. Still, I do it anyway. I secretly hope it pisses him off.

He didn't leave. I swallowed my pride and turned to the window.

"Lovely moonlight tonight, don't you agree?" When he didn't respond, I turned back around. But Batman was still there.

I sighed. This was going to be as fun as Barb's rants about my male ego.

"Okay, I'll bite. What is it?"

"You haven't asked me about the Minstrel," he replied.

I shrugged my shoulders, "That's not how this usually works. Aren't I supposed to wait for you to have news?"

He didn't answer the question. "Jim, don't tell me that you aren't worried about his next move."

I shrugged again. I wanted to play off my annoyance. The way he asked sounded rude, like he was insulting my intelligence. I folded my arms.

"I will admit that it's crossed my mind, but there's been no news or leads on the guy since his last public appearance. He hasn't even hacked the TV feeds. Regardless, when you compare him to someone like Professor Pyg..."

"His UNCLE is worse than Pyg," Batman forced.

I held up a disarming hand, "You're right. His ties to Joker are worrisome. But so are Harley Quinn's. I think Minstrel might just be a fanboy with a political axe to grind. A public nuisance that Bullock can handle, if not another mask in Gotham."

That man was the only person that could pack so much nuance in a grumble that I could immediately tell he both agreed and disagreed with me.

"I've learned not to ask for a minor criminal in Gotham," he explained.

I rolled my eyes and sighed. "Ever think Joker is just one sick son of a bitch that no one can match crazy with no matter how much they want to?"

He had seen all the same copycats as I. Depressed men that wanted a girl that didn't want them back. Military vets that thought murderous nihilism was a personality trait. Kids that listened to trash music while taking too many drugs. Sometimes they came close, but no one could ever be as horrific as the laughing enigma that all of Gotham had long accepted would likely be the death of us.

"Every day. But that doesn't make his people any less dangerous. Gotham is in a precarious situation, Jim. How well are you monitoring it?"

I picked up a file that a rosy-cheeked intern had sat on my desk. I didn't have to be the world's greatest detective to figure out that he was talking about the Namzmiren trial.

"The Feds sent a dossier on all of Gotham's street activists. Mostly clout chasers and scam preachers, but with strong followings. There aren't any protests underway now, but they're preparing for one when his trial concludes in a few days."

Batman looked at me for a drawn out minute. I could tell that he was expecting more, and I knew exactly what he was about to ask, so I answered before he had a chance, "That's all they sent. I've had some of my men monitor internet chatter in known white supremacist circles, but so far nothing."

"There's going to be a counter protest," Batman said. The way he spoke made me feel like it was more of an order rather than a helpful tip. 

I shook my head, "You're probably right about that. But as it is now, there's no evidence that--"

"Minstrel is going to strike in the coming week. Be prepared."

I knew that he was probably right, so I didn't argue. But dammit, what did he expect me to do? I couldn't just tell my men to be prepared for an attack that MAY happen, one that MAY result in deaths of innocents. I needed more before I went into the bullpen and started barking out orders, and the Batman knew that.

"I'll put my men on alert," was all I could respond with. 

He didn't answer or give any indication there was anything else he wanted to say. I played my role. I turned my head away and took a long, pensive look out the open window to my office. The city beneath me was aglow with the light of a metropolis, but the heavy condensation scattered the light. It looked like I was looking down into the first cavern of Hell, with a strange glow being the key sign of a blazing inferno far below. Course, Gotham had been turned into Hell so many times that I honestly had no trouble believing that somewhere far below, Satan himself was sitting on a throne and waiting anxiously for me to turn on the signal on the roof so he could do battle with our dark night. Was that who Minstrel was? I wasn't sure, but Batman seemed to be much more certain than I. Because that's the only way he knew how to see these psychos, and I honestly couldn't blame him for that. If he was even half as dangerous as fucking Condiment King, Minstrel was a threat to the city.

I sighed, then turned back around. Of course, Batman was gone.


	10. Reunited at the Minstrel's Show

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Gotham City Department of Public Health presents a Public Service Announcement regarding an increase in cancer cases throughout the city.

Ever since the first night, Batman had been worried about the Minstrel making a reappearance. The tense political situation in the wake of the Twin's Shooting only made him even more nervous. Problem was the Batman can't be nervous. The Batman can be concerned, cautious, uncertain, but never nervous. Perhaps if Batman could be nervous, then Comissioner Gordon would have taken his warning more seriously.

The Namzmiren case happened two months before Minstrel even appeared. The trial started days before his first attack. Still, Batman was certain that he would act in response to it. Considering his commitment to fighting racism, it made sense that Minstrel wouldn't ignore the case. But perhaps Batman was so determined that Minstrel would strike because he needed it to be true. Strategic minds like Batman couldn't tolerate unpredictability. He needed to find a pattern to Minstrel's behavior, just as he was constantly searching for a pattern in the Joker's. 

It happened on a Sunday night. Minstrel appeared on the news again, but he wasn't alone. He stood upon a stage of purple curtains with a medical operating table on either side of him. The man and woman strapped down to the tables didn't appear very jazzed to be there. 

"Greetings citizens of Gotham. It is with a heavy heart that I inform you there has been an increase in cancer diagnoses in our city. In the interest of educating the masses and securing public health, I have recruited two volunteers for this educational surgical theater." 

Minstrel walked behind the table on his right, the one the woman was strapped into. Her hair was a mess across her face, and her makeup was smeared by tears. Slowly, with the type of care and love as one would give to a mother, he placed his hand upon her shoulder, then spoke with an equally nurturing tone.

"Now, now, Rachel, dear. It'll be all right. But Mammy needs your help. Tell the good people what ails you."

With a whimpering voice fighting back cries of terror, she stammered out her obviously scripted response. "T-t-Tounge cancer. There's a lump on my tongue and it makes me tell lies." 

The corner of Minstrel's mouth ticked up in a sadistic grin. "Good, dear, good. Doesn't it feel better to tell the truth? But don't worry, Uncle R will remove that horrible lump from your mouth and stop those god-awful lies." 

"Please. I made a mistake. I never meant to-"

"Moving on!" His sudden, sharp cry made the woman's body jerk in surprise. She didn't finish her thought or even let out a wail. Her mouth stayed firmly closed.

Minstrel walked over to his other hostage, masquerading the same innocent concern and placing an equally tender hand upon the man's shoulder.

"Do. Not. Touch. Me!" The man barked at Minstrel with the confidence of one that wasn't tied to a table. Inside, he surely must have been shaking at the uncertainty of his fate, but his outward expression didn't betray any signs of that fear. 

"Calm down, calm down Oliver. It's only me, your good pal and man-friday, George. Now, now my dear, tell the kind people about your affliction." 

"When I get out of here, I am going to take off your head and use it to practice field goals!" 

Minstrel made a big show of rolling his eyes, "We get it, you played football!" 

Minstrel moved his hand off Oliver's shoulder, then proceeded to point down to his crotch.

"You see, boys, girls, and those undecided, the problem is with little Olly. He's growing ladies, but not in the way you'd want." 

The Minstrel laughed at his own joke, then took a step away from Oliver and retook his initial point between the two tables. He reached behind his back and pulled out two latex gloves and a surgical mask. He began putting those items on as he continued his monologue.

"This cancer is not born like ordinary cancers, so Chemo won't work. It's a cancer born in the mind, which leads to malignant growths in the body. Take Ms. Rachel Walters here, who's been suffering from this cancer since she was in college."

Rachel began to cry at her table, and Minstrel raised a shushing finger that she did not obey. He only shrugged and continued his story.

"Miss Walters was the victim of a sexual assault during her sophomore year. Or was she? She picked out her fellow student, Leon Anderson in a line up, and told tales of how he degraded her and called her a white bitch during the assault. The accusations landed young Leon in jail without bail, where he awaited trial for half a year. He never saw trial, however, and committed suicide in his jail cell through self-inflicted sharp object wounds. A private investigation concluded that his DNA didn't match the suspect's, a fact which the city was well aware of even while Mr. Anderson awaited trial." 

"So the bitch lied and ruined a man's life," Oliver said, "why am I not surprised?"

"It's not true," Rachel said in a small voice. 

Misntrel smiled even wider, then eagerly walked over to Rachel. He leaned close in her face and lingered over her for a moment.

"Is that true? I made a mistake? Well, take this as your moment to set the record straight. I would hate to spread misinformation on such an educational show."

Rachel Walters took a deep breath. Then another. And then another. 

"My parents beat me for as long as I can remember. They were old fashioned and they--they didn't want me becoming a whore. That's what they'd always say, even when I was a little girl, 'don't be a whore, Rachel.' When I got to college I thought I could rebel and just live my life. I was drunk, I had sex without a condom, and when I woke up the next morning, I just knew."

"The miracle of life," Minstrel interrupted, "Oh I'm sure it was magical. Tell us all what it felt like."

"It felt awful. All I could feel was fear and shame and anger, because I knew how my parents would react. Don't you understand how my father would have responded? He'd treat me like I was a prisoner, even worse! I had to-I had to get rid of it."

"But you didn't," Minstrel said, "You gave birth to a bouncing baby boy on the twelfth night of August, some eight months later."

"Even after I told my father that I was raped, he refused to let me abort it! I love my son, more than anything, but I was only nineteen years old. I was terrified about what would happen. I prayed to God every night, hoping that he would protect me and my unborn son, and deliver us from that awful house so he could grow up happily. And He did!"

The Minstrel yawned, "yeah, yeah, God is good all the time, all the time God is good. Let's get to the juicy bits. Why did you accuse Leon Anderson of raping you?" 

"I NEVER accused him of raping me! I never accused anyone! I went to the police and told them that it was a stranger. I tore my clothes and scratched my body up well enough to convince them, then said I was walking alone in the park when a stranger grabbed me. When they brought me into the line up, I tried to remind them that I didn't see his face, but they pressured me! They screamed at me and said it was all my fault and that if I couldn't identify the suspect then he'd walk free and rape someone else."

"So you pointed to a random person?" 

"The way they were talking, I thought maybe one of the men in the line up had already raped someone else! I pointed to someone, anyone, and they were so happy and nice afterwards. I thought I'd maybe helped some other woman get justice. I prayed that the Lord would guide my hand, and the next minute they told me that I'd done an excellent job."

Minstrel shook his head and sucked his teeth. "Rachel, Rachel, Rachel. Don't you understand that none of that was your fault? It was the cancer warping your mind, convincing you that making up a fictional Black rapist was the proper way to handle the matter." 

"I-"

Minstrel stopped her before she could continue, "And you did specify that he was Black. I've read the police report. You described your attacker as a Black male, in a university sweatshirt with the hood pulled down. He called you a white bitch and other slurs and took the cash from your purse immediately after. These details, the obsession with your fake attacker's race, all of this is proof of the cancer."

More tears began to rush down Rachel's face. For a few seconds, she was a whining mess incapable of intelligible speech. She had to fight through her fear and sadness to plead for her life one last time.

"I'm sorry! I am! I apologized to his family after he died! His mother forgave me, and we even prayed together. It was my parents, not me, and everyone understood that. Why are you doing this?" 

Minstrel's eyes widened in shock at her words. He looked at Rachel, then to the camera, then back to Rachel again. Back and forth his head turned, and each time it stopped he appeared more and more confused.

"Well," he finally said after having enough of his own antics. "I know that I have an ass that won't quit and contour flawlessly, but no one's ever confused me for a beautiful Black woman before, least of all someone's mama. I'm honestly flattered." 

He walked away from Rachel to stand over his other victim, Oliver. 

"As for this young man, his symptoms are largely similar-"

"I've never done anything as bad as that c***!" 

"Language, Mr. Walcztloh! We're on local public television, not the locker room of Gotham U's football team."

Oliver looked at Minstrel indignantly, "Look, kid. I get it. You're pissed that the lady over there framed one of your brothers and made him kill himself. I get it, I do. But I'm not like her. Lots of good guys on my team nearly got ruined because of false reports, myself included. Whoever's told you otherwise is mistaken."

Minstrel reached behind his back, somehow materializing a clipboard in the process. He read from the obviously blank sheets of paper before he responded to his captive. "No, I don't think so. Obsession of a sexual nature, indicative of deep rooted racial fetishes ultimately leading to harm against others. Sarah Page's Disease, same cancer as Ms. Rachel Walters over there. Isn't that why you had three separate sexual assault claims made against you while you attended Gotham University? All by Black female students?"

"Nothing but lies! Those girls were drunk sluts that regretted it the next day and wanted to gain sympathy by playing the race card. Why don't you tell all of Gotham that none of those claims led to criminal charges while you're at it?"

Minstrel acted as though he didn't hear Oliver's protests, "And then there's the truly troublesome matter of Ms. Ariella North, a cheerleader from your short lived professional career. Her suicide caused a lot of discord in the sport's community, especially after she was revealed as an anonymous source in the Daily Planet's expose on sexual harassment of college and professional level cheerleaders across the nation. Curious timing, don't you suppose?"

"I barely even knew Ariella! And she never even said who it was that raped her!" 

Again, the Minstrel shook his head and sucked his teeth, "And once again we see the strength of this cancer's delusions. Oliver, there are photos of the two of you at a post-draft party all over her social media page. The two of you tagged each other in posts. Yet you say you barely knew her?" 

Minstrel stepped away from Oliver and reached behind the rear curtain of the stage. From there, he wheeled out a gas tank with two masks attached. The Minstrel was silent as he brought it to the front of the stage and positioned it perfectly between his two hostages. He covered Oliver's face first, and though the man screamed and cursed in a futile attempt to fight back, his breath quickly slowed and his voice slurred.

"Please," Rachel cried as Minstrel moved towards her with a mask. "Please don't do this. I know what I did was wrong, and I live with this guilty conscience every day. Don't destroy your own soul just for revenge. You can be the better person here, a model for all your peers. I'll do whatever else you want until you think I've been punished enough. But please don't hurt me." 

Minstrel smiled down at her. After taking a huge, deep breath that puffed his chest nearly a mile out, he began to sing in a sweet, melodious voice. 

"I don't really care if you cry. On the real you should have never lied. Baby don't you see the madness in my eyes? I just really want you to. Die..."

The rest of Gotham didn't get to know the fate of Rachel Walters and Oliver Walcztloh until the next morning. At that very moment, the feed was terminated. 

It wasn't Minstrel doing, of course. If he had his way the broadcast would have continued to show all the gruesome details. He had no interest in sparing the sensitive audiences of Gotham a high-definition, front stage glimpse of him cutting out Rachel's tongue and castrating Walcztloh. Of course, the recorded footage still made it's way on the internet anyway, no matter how hard Batman and the Oracle tried to stop it from leaking.

"I heal their cancer," Minstrel said as he showed Rachel's cut tongue and Walcztloh's dismemberment to the camera. He tossed both over his shoulder haphazardly, then discarded his gloves and mask in a similar fashion. Minstrel reached behind his back again, and pulled out a small tube.

"And now I make them beautiful!"

He walked over to Oliver's still unconscious body, then pressed down on the tube. A spray of black liquid shot out and caked onto Oliver's face. In less than two seconds, Walcztloh was as dark as the Minstrel, but he still wasn't ready. Minstrel turned the same tube upside down, then twisted the sides until a bloodred stick shot out. Before he marked the man, he turned to the camera and presented the device to the audience he still thought was there.

"Minstrelfier! For the next time your pasty ass needs Instalikes. Order right now with promocode, SHAMEC, and receive two for the price of one." 

He turned away from the camera and began walking towards Rachel Walters to begin the same process, but he didn't make it in time.

Glass rained down from above, and the Minstrel immediately ran for cover. Two figures touched down onto the stage, and Minstrel instantly recognized both.

"Batman! And, ew, put that thing away! No one wants to see ya Dick!" 

Batman and I chased him through the old theater. He threw old stage equipment and props to try and block us, but we avoided them as well as we dodged his quips and jeers.

"How did you even track me down? That's the last time I buy a VPN off an app market." 

Minstrel wound up running himself into a dead end. He was sandwiched between an old, brick wall and the Dynamic Duo themselves. Most criminals knew that wasn't a good place to be, and Minstrel was the same. He immediately dropped to his knees and clasped his hands together in prayer.

"Please dear Lord, send my guardian angel to get me out of this!" 

"A bit too late for that, Minstrel," Batman said. 

"I doubt the man upstairs is doing you favors after everything you just pulled," I agreed.

Minstrel just looked at me and laughed, "Oh you poor, confused, Nightwing. My god has no gender." 

Before I could even think to ask what he meant, a giant blast went up in our faces. Batman threw his body in front of mine and raised his cape up to shield me from the blast debris. The smoke was thick enough to cut with a batarang, and I could hardly rely on my ears because they were still ringing. Despite that, I could still hear a familiar, hyper voice over the tone.

"Run, Jimmy! I'll hold back Batman and the Brat Wonda!" 

"Harley!" Batman said in shock. Neither of us had expected her to show up, least of all to actually help Minstrel. 

It ended like these stories usually end. Minstrel got away, we tangled with Harley for a couple of minutes before we managed to restrain her. Gordon's boys showed up soon after and dragged her to the station for questioning. Paramedics told us that both Rachel and Oliver would live, but they'd live permanently disfigured by a criminal that Batman and I failed to stop.

"We failed, Dick. We failed the whole city," Mr. Brightside said once we returned to the cave.

I couldn't help but agree with him. The minute we got the call from Gordon earlier in the night, we did everything we could to arrive before Minstrel had a chance to harm his hostages. But we couldn't deduce his location fast enough. And once we finally had, Harley Quinn arrived and ruined everything, and Minstrel was in the wind again. 

"It's not a complete failure, though," I told Batman as a thought suddenly dawned on me. "Bruce, I think we have a clue who Minstrel is." 

"What do you mean? Did you notice something earlier?" 

I nodded, "Remember what Minstrel said when we first crashed in?"

"'No one wants to see your dick.' I remember. It was a pun, a play on your name to let us know that Joker told him our real identities. Luckily for us it looks like he shares his uncle's trait of not wanting to share it with the world yet." 

"No, you're wrong Bruce. Not about him knowing our identities, that's given. But the joke wasn't what you're thinking. He actually said 'No one wants to see ya Dick.' Ya as in you."

"But it's the same-"

"Just listen, Bruce! Based on that picture, we thought Minstrel had to be a circus kid, right? Well when I was a kid in the circus, I had a friend. Every time we saw each other, he would say, 'No one wants to see ya, Dick.'" 

He nodded, "So you think the Minstrel is this kid? I agree it's possible. But how do you know Joker and Minstrel didn't just find out about that joke between you and your friend?" 

"Because Harley didn't call him Minstrel when she appeared. She called him Jimmy, and my friend's name was James Byrd."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, that ending was a little rushed, I'm sorry. But the chapter was already running really long, and this took me nearly a year to get right (technically I've only been working on this part for a couple of months, but the idea for this scene is what inspired me to bring Minstrel to life in the first place). Don't worry, though, the ends of other chapters won't be nearly as rushed.


End file.
